


Caring For Sherlock

by Fatlockandfeeding



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark!Mycroft, Emotional Manipulation, Humiliation, M/M, Verbal Humiliation, Weight Gain, chubby!mycroft, dark!fic, dubcon, fat character(s), fat!Sherlock, secret feeding, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatlockandfeeding/pseuds/Fatlockandfeeding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach Sherlock comes back, and John rejects him. Mycroft picks up the pieces…whether Sherlock wants him to or not. Holmescest</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring For Sherlock

> "Your grief has ended that pathetic attempt a diet, I see…although…three stone in as many years. Perhaps I should congratulate you on what is clearly your attempt at some sort of self-control."  
>   
> That’s how his brother, his little brother, whose death he had blamed himself for for almost three years, for whom he had mourned and yes, even wept, greeted him: by humiliating him about his weight, which really, was at least partially Sherlock’s fault, seeing as there had been a fair bit of comfort-eating, yes. Mycroft said nothing, however, instead adjusting his rather large waistcoat (which still managed to strain across his gut, had he known Sherlock was coming, or even still alive, he would have gone to the tailor’s) and arching a practiced eyebrow.   
>   
> "You’re as charming as ever, brother dear. I see your years dismantling a criminal web have not changed you."  
>   
> Sherlock snorted. “I see your years spent no doubt needlessly blaming yourself for my death  _have_ changed you.” He poked Mycroft viciously in the gut and Mycroft snapped, grabbing his brother’s wrist, forcefully.   
>   
> "You," he seethed out, his nostrils flaring, "have no idea what you put any of us through. Me, John, Mrs. Hudson. You are a selfish, spoiled little brat and I should have stopped indulging you years ago." Mycroft straightened up, trying to look as composed as was possible with his buttons straining on his current outfit. He had put off replacing his clothes for too long. "Good day, Sherlock. I find myself considerably less glad that you’re alive than I was ten minutes ago."   
>   
> Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you need me, I’ll be at Baker Street.”  
>   
> Mycroft almost said something. He almost spoke of John’s new fiance, and of how he would not be waiting there for Sherlock, but instead he squared his shoulders, and walked out of the door.   
>   
>   
> Two days later, he got the first text.  
>   
>  _Saw John. -SH_
> 
> Mycroft considered for a moment before replying.   
>   
>  _And? -M_
> 
> _There’s a woman. -SH_
> 
> Ah, of course.  
>   
>  _Mary, yes. I find her to be rather pleasant. How did John take your return? -M_
> 
> There was a significant delay between his text and Sherlock’s next reply.  
>   
>  _He didn’t. He wouldn’t let me explain. He says I am no longer worth the hurt I caused him, and that he has a new life now. A new family. -SH_
> 
> Mycroft felt a momentary twinge of sympathy, and then replied.  
>   
>  _So Mary’s pregnant, then. I’d suspected as much. I’m sorry, brother. -M_
> 
> Another pregnant pause followed.
> 
> _It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He was ordinary at best. I’m still at Baker street, should you come across any cases that aren’t too dull. -SH  
>   
> _ _And yet you loved him, didn’t you? -M_
> 
> This time there was no reply. Mycroft simply put his phone aside, his brain itching for something he could do to help, and so eventually he had his assistant send over some chocolates to Baker street, as well as some groceries in general.  
>   
> Kindness, that was how it started, really.  
>   
>   
> Three weeks later Mycroft saw Sherlock for the first time since their strained reunion, and his mouth nearly fell open at the sight of him. Sherlock was a wreck, with dark-circles under his eyes and unkempt hair, and he barely even huffed when Mycroft entered his flat, instead simply wringing out discordant notes on his violin, which was propped under his stubbled ( _stubbled?_ ) chin. “What do you want?” he ground out, before placing the instrument aside.   
>   
> "I have a case for you," Mycroft said, handing over the file, waiting for a few moments before Sherlock leaned forward to get it…and that was when Mycroft saw it. The tiny lip of fat hanging over his brother’s pyjama bottoms. Six pounds’ worth of gain, if that, but on Sherlock’s emaciated frame it was all the more apparent.  
>   
> Mycroft quickly scanned the flat he hadn’t been in for almost three years and immediately gleaned the source of this new change. The groceries he’d sent. He hadn’t specified with his assistant what she should send over, only telling her to send ‘the usual stuff,’ and so she had clearly gone ahead and sent Mycroft’s usual list, which included a fair amount of food that was rather unhealthy. Thick rye bread, full-fat mayonnaise, packaged cakes and ready-to-eat lasagna’s and pasta dishes. And Sherlock, out of what was clearly depression mixed with boredom, had eaten it. All.  
>   
> A plan had formed in Mycroft’s head before he knew what was happening. It would be difficult, especially to execute from a distance, but not impossible.  
>   
> That night he sent over more food for Sherlock, but this time he was specific. Pastries and fat-laden dishes. Fried chicken. Anything that would add to his brother’s newly-gained pounds. 
> 
> Anything to make him bigger. 
> 
> And over the next two months, it worked. Mycroft turned on the cameras he had stashed in his brother’s house, planted a few more, and watched as the once lithe detective ate and gorged himself (sometimes while crying, but watching that made Mycroft uncomfortable and eventually he had to turn off the screen when it happened), his belly steadily growing until it was no longer contained by his trousers, and eventually even started to pooch out over his pyjama bottoms.   
>   
> Time to step up the game, then. Mycroft sent even more food, and new clothes, and started to doctor the food he was sending over. He had special gallons of milk made, made up of half whole-milk and half heavy cream, and Sherlock, uncharacteristically oblivious, never seemed to notice. He had his own personal chefs prepare foods laden with extra butter, cream, and weight-gain powder, and then had them pre-packaged to look like prepared meals, and sent them over en masse. 
> 
> And Sherlock continued to grow. Soon he passed what could be described as ‘plump,’ or even chubby, and was heading steadily towards being truly  _fat_. Mycroft snuck into the house when his brother was gone and replaced all of his clothes with exact replicas to delay Sherlock’s realisation of just  _how_  much he had gained, and watched his progress of the monitors, a sick sort of fascination filling him.   
>   
> He masturbated for the first time when Sherlock had gained just under sixty-five pounds. Mycroft had decided to stop replacing his clothes, and he watched as Sherlock struggled to pull on a pair of trousers, his cast gut jiggling with every jump. It wasn’t just his gut that had grown either, it was his arse and arms, and even his chest and face had started to soften. Mycroft’s mouth watered as he watched, and he began to rub at his own belly, his hand eventually slipping lower and lower until he was hefting his gut up and palming at his cock, rubbing and grunting and thrusting until he came, letting out a long, low groan.   
>   
> Interesting.   
>   
> After that incident, Sherlock attempted to diet, but failed, miserably. His eating habits had changed too much, and he was too used to being full, and besides, Mycroft continued to send fattening, opulent dishes to his house, and watched as Sherlock sat naked on his couch, stuffing himself with dish after dish even as he looked down at his fat body with disgust.   
>   
> Seven months after Sherlock’s return, he turned up at his brother’s door, almost ninety pounds heavier than he had been upon his return. Mycroft made sure to turn off all the monitors of Baker street, and then answered, plastering an expectant look on his face, which he carefully schooled into shock. it wasn’t even hard, really. Seeing Sherlock on a screen was one thing, but seeing him in person, vast and fat and stuffed-looking, was entirely something else. Sherlock’s cheek bones had disappeared into a round, plump face, which now sported a noticeable double chin. His gut was immense, threatening to burst from the shirt Sherlock was wearing, and it trembled with every breath Sherlock took.   
>   
> "Brother," Mycroft said quietly, "what…" As if he didn’t know. But appearances had to be maintained. 
> 
> Sherlock’s chubby cheeks flushed with shame, and he looked down at his belly, pathetically attempting to cover the vast mass with his hands. “I don’t…I need…”  
>   
> "Shh," Mycroft drew Sherlock inside, and pressed his brother into a hug, a burst of arrival shooting through him as their fat guts pressed together. He leaned back, having to hide his semi from his brother when he realised that the shorter man was now  _larger_  than him. “Shhh,” he said again, “it’s alright…no one will judge you here.” He lead Sherlock into the living room and sat the man down on the couch, running his hands over the man’s flabby gut, soothingly. “You’re alright,” he said gently, “no matter how fat and slovenly you’ve become,” Mycroft’s lip curled, “your brother will always love you.”  
>   
> Sherlock whimpered and tried to shy away from Mycroft’s touch, and Mycroft tutted.   
>   
> "Now, now, Sherlock, you can’t hide," he gestured, "all  _this_  from me. You can’t hide what a hog you’ve become from me. You fat pig, you,” he slipped his hand lower, hefting up Sherlock’s gut and cupping his cock, “ _whore_.”   
>   
>  "Mycroft. what are you -"
> 
> "Shhh," Mycroft pressed Sherlock down into the couch, "you can’t fight it Sherlock. After all, look at you." Mycroft smirked. "John didn’t want you…and now who’s left? Who would want you know that you’ve become  _this_?” Mycroft viciously grabbed a large handful of Sherlock’s belly fat and grinned. “I am the only person you have,” he leaned in, and bit at Sherlock’s lips, “ _say it_.”  
>   
>  Sherlock whimpered, and then leaned up to meet his brother’s lips. “I’m yours,” he whispered brokenly, “I’m j-just…your fat whore. I’m not worth anything else.”  
>   
> Mycroft grinned. “Now that’s better,” he said soothingly, fumbling for Sherlock’s cock, “and after we’re through, I’ll put you to bed, hmm? Get you a nice,  _big_  dinner.”  
>   
> After all, things were going so well. Why stop now?

 

 


End file.
